Torn Apart
by DarkSlayer84
Summary: Fathom. Vana's regrets after the Fathom/Witchblade/TombRaider x-over. Vana's POV. Heavy innuendo, mild swearing, and suicide. Complete. R&R, or not.


_**Torn Apart**_

DarkSlayer84

**Notes and Disclaimer:** I do not own "Michael Turner's Fathom", nor any of the characters. The comic and all properties are under copyright by Mr. Turner, in cooperation with Top Cow, an Image company. There's no way this is canon. ;p

_And I'm sinking ever deeper to a place that's cold and black  
I can't believe I've lost you and you're never coming back  
These lies have torn my world apart_

--"Torn Apart", Stabbing Westward

Taras.

I had such hopes for you. Such dreams.

And that bitch took them away. Aspen--the arrogant little Pacific surfer. A surfer, like the humans, morons with hangovers and greasy hair. She who would be our leader--she's been tainted by the world above, corrupted into human garbage and then dumped into our domain, washed up our doorstep.

That's why I've chosen this place. We were always meant for the deep sea, the lightless inky womb of the planet, taking our warmth and our life from the boiling chemical vents on the ocean floor. But even there we weren't safe. Even there they brought their diving teams and their drills and their robots.

Here, they will never find us. Here there is night for half the year--and the stars, Taras. You should see them. The nights are so clear, so devoid of intrusion by mechanical light, that you can watch the constellations cycle overhead.

Andromeda. Especially her. Be mindful of the captive princess. She slipped her bonds, turned on her rescuers. It was ruin for you, and your lover Killian. I had such hopes for him, too. Poor boy. She got to him. I warned you both; you can never trust women, Taras. None but me.

It was all my fault, you know. I believed the old stories. I thought I could live the tale of the mermaid who walked among humans--voiceless, but complete in her love. How foolish I was.

Your father--he never approved, did he? Of us. "Witch", he said. "Whore", he called me. He was always afraid of the rain and the snow and the deep places of this world. Water terrified him. I terrified him.

He tried to own me, to stake me to his world the only way he could. Like nailing water to a wall. It hurt--nothing has ever hurt so much. But it gave me you. You were perfect. As handsome and well-behaved as anyone could ask, and remarkably clever. I had hoped he would love you as much as I did. I wish I could have predicted the truth. He was so jealous. Because you were a hundred times the man he was or would ever be. And so he hit you and hit you and hit you. I'm so sorry, baby.

We fixed him. I fixed him, didn't I--didn't mama make it better? Oh, yes.

It's cold here. Not as cold as home, but nearly so. Soothing, in a way. Blissful. I walked naked into a snowstorm, a dizzying dance of frozen water, frozen life, and thought of you. Oh, my son. You would have loved it here. You both would.

Killian. He was cruel and beautiful, and the cold did not agree with him. He was always hot-tempered, hot-blooded. A very macho fellow, really. Not your usual sort at all. He answered everything with fists or _chikra_ blasts, and asked questions later. He killed everything he couldn't seduce, and some of what he could. He was like a lionfish, stately, swift and lethal.

Thank you for sharing, by the way. Most charitable of you both.

We had more than a year with him. It was a grand time, that. Flitting up and down the Atlantic, killing scores of fishermen, the same as ranchers kill wolves in the world above. Taking down entire offshore drilling operations, neutralizing those who would tear our world open and poison it. Humans have never known where "red tide" actually comes from; we turned the tides red, not once, but twice.

It didn't last, of course. Killian was too wild, too angry. And looking back on it now, he was too much like your father. So certain of his own power, so assured of his dominance, utterly destroyed by the woman he tried to own.

I grew tired. Weary of the water, of the tides and oceans of this world, and their hold on me. So I came to a place where the water stills at last, sluggish and dark in its frozen prison. And there are no humans here. The Arctic circle just doesn't appeal to them. Even Aspen couldn't stand it here--the price of her humanity.

The water is too cold to freeze, and so I will it colder, until ice shows like scales over the top. I step through and it swallows my ankles, my bone-grey skin vanishing in the blue-black--this whole part of the ocean is the color of a great dark bruise. I've taken my share of those, eh? We all have, Taras--sooner or later, life beats us all. In more ways than one. Even Cannon understood that.

Cannon was fond of the cold. I remember that about him, that and his blinding smile. You were so happy together, and he threw it away for Aspen. Killian was more than rebound, he was almost revenge; he and Cannon had always despised each other.

I tried, Taras. I tried to take care of him. I tried to get you back. Don't accuse me so. Cannon always was a tricky little bastard. He was more your type, dark and strong and sharp-minded. If anything, he was a little too clever. But even he wasn't smart enough to evade Aspen's clutches.

They've won. They're both human now. It's their world, and they are welcome to it.

The water snakes up my hips, the cold knifing through my body. It hurts. What was it you told me--you who were always better, wiser than your own mother--life hurts?

You were right, my son. Life hurts. Hell, birth hurts. It's pain from the beginning. The water swallows my shoulders: birth in reverse. My heart squeezes in my chest, desperate to get the blood going as frost begins to sparkle on my skin.

The water closes in, black and bitter, scraping over me. The kiss of my last lover, harsh and biting. The calm blackness stabbed through with red. My lungs were never meant to endure this. Against my own will, I try to breathe. It doesn't matter; my gills are frozen shut. Dying of oxygen-thirst in the middle of the ocean: the irony is not lost on me. It was water that bore me, water that hammered in my veins, and water that drew me down and slowed the last stabbing, clutching complaints of my heart.

My vision goes out in a firestorm of red and black, blood and water. I'm not afraid. This world is meaningless, a sleep only, a short rest between the first world and the last. I have gone down the Steps of Chanarnay for the final time. This life is over. There will be another.

See you in the final world, boys. I'd hate to keep you waiting. I've had such dreams...

Taras...

-END-


End file.
